William Goldman

“Has it got any sports in it?”

“Fencing. Fighting. Torture. Poison. True love. Hate. Revenge. Giants. Hunters. Bad men. Good men. Beautifulest ladies. Snakes. Spiders. Beasts of all natures and descriptions. Pain. Death. Brave men. Coward men. Strongest men. Chases. Escapes. Lies. Truths. Passion. Miracles.”

Even when I was able to read myself, this book remained his. I would never have dreamed of opening it. I wanted his voice, his sounds. Later, years later even, sometimes I might say, “How about the duel on the cliff with Inigo and the man in black?” and my father would gruff and grumble and get the book and lick his thumb, turning pages till the mighty battle began. I loved that. Even today, that’s how I summon back my father when the need arises. Slumped and squinting and halting over words, giving me Morgenstern’s masterpiece as best he could. The Princess Bride belonged to my father.

Everything else was mine.

That first book of mine I mentioned, The Temple of Gold—do you know where the title comes from? From the movie Gunga Din, which I’ve seen sixteen times and I still think is the greatest adventure movie ever ever ever made. (True story about Gunga Din: when I got discharged from the Army, I made a vow never to go back on an Army post. No big deal, just a simple lifelong vow. Okay, now I’m home the day after I get out and I’ve got a buddy at Fort Sheridan nearby and I call to check in and he says, “Hey, guess what’s on post tonight? Gunga Din.” “We’ll go,” I said. “It’s tricky,” he said; “you’re a civilian.” Upshot: I got back into uniform the first night I was out and snuck onto an Army post to see that movie. Snuck back. A thief in the night. Heart pounding, the sweats, everything.)

That book was the single best thing that happened to me (sorry about that, Helen; Helen is my wife, the hot-shot child psychiatrist), and long before I was even married, I knew I was going to share it with my son. I knew I was going to have a son too. So when Jason was born (if he’d been a girl, he would have been Pamby; can you believe that, a woman child psychiatrist who would give her kids such names?)—anyway, when Jason was born, I made a mental note to buy him a copy of The Princess Bride for his tenth birthday.

After which I promptly forgot all about it.

“Helen?” I said then. “Listen, do me something. Buzz the Nine-nine-nine bookshop and have them send over The Princess Bride.”

“Lemme get a pencil,” and she’s gone a while. “Okay. Shoot. The what bride?”

“Princess. By S. Morgenstern. It’s a kids’ classic. Tell him I’ll quiz him on it when I’m back next week and that he doesn’t have to like it or anything, but if he doesn’t, tell him I’ll kill myself. Give him that message exactly please; I wouldn’t want to apply any extra pressure or anything.”

“Kiss me, my fool.”

“Mmmm-wah.”

“No starlets now.” This was always her sign-off line when I was alone and on the loose in sunny California.

“They’re extinct, dummy.” That was mine. We hung up.

“Mr. Goldman?”

I looked up. It was the assistant lifeguard.

“For you again.” He handed me the phone.

“Willy?” Just the sound of my wife’s voice sent sheer blind misgivings through each and every bit of me.

“Yes, Helen?”

“You sound funny.”

“What is it, Helen?”

“Nothing, but—”

“It can’t be nothing or you wouldn’t have called me.”

“What’s the matter, Willy?”

“Nothing is the matter. I was trying to be logical. You did, after all, place the call. I was merely trying to ascertain why.” I can be pretty distant when I put my mind to it.

“You’re hiding something.”

Nothing drives me crazier than when Helen does that. Because, see, with this horrible psychiatrist background of hers, she only accuses me of hiding things from her when I’m hiding things from her. “Helen, I’m in the middle of a story conference now; just get on with it.”

So there it was again. I was lying to my wife about another woman, and the other woman knew it.

“Hey, Jason? Mom tells me this book arrived today. The Princess thing? I’d sure like it if maybe you’d give it a read while I’m gone. I loved it when I was a kid and I’m kind of interested in your reaction.”

“Do I have to love it too?” He was his mother’s son all right.

“Jason, no. Just the truth, exactly what you think. I miss you, big shot. And I’ll talk to you on your birthday.”

“Boy, are you wrong. Today is my birthday.”

I had to laugh when I saw the real title, because right there it said:

You had to admire a guy who called his own new book a classic before it was published and anyone else had a chance to read it. Maybe he figured if he didn’t do it, nobody would, or maybe he was just trying to give the reviewers a helping hand; I don’t know.

The more I flipped on, the more I knew: Morgenstern wasn’t writing any children’s book; he was writing a kind of satiric history of his country and the decline of the monarchy in Western civilization.

But my father only read me the action stuff, the good parts. He never bothered with the serious side at all.

The “good parts” version.

Why did I go through all that?

Helen pressured me greatly to think about an answer. She felt it was important, not that she know necessarily, but that I know. “Because you acted crackers, Willy boy,” she said. “You had me truly scared.”